by Laura Scott
Target for Ransom
Laura Scott
Readscape Publishing, LLC
Copyright © 2020 by Laura Scott
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Dear Reader
Target For Revenge
Chapter One
September 9 – 1:25 p.m. – Washington, DC
“Let me go!” The young dark-haired girl squirmed in her seat, fighting the ropes holding her arms ruthlessly behind her back, her eyes covered by a black blindfold. “Let me go!”
Jordan’s gut clenched and bile rose in his throat as the girl repeatedly sobbed, begging to be released. Unable to tear his gaze from the live webcam, he forced himself to think like an agent, concentrating on the pertinent details. The room was dark, windowless, and anonymously bare. It could have been any city in any country across the world. The rope was basic twine, and the chair the girl was sitting in was a cheap card-table type of chair readily available in any store.
“Can’t you understand English? Let me go!” Panic mingled with defiance in her tone.
Jordan curled his fingers into helpless fists. What sort of people tormented a child? What did they want? He leaned closer, straining to analyze the situation despite the child’s heartrending cries. The girl’s young voice sounded American, but he couldn’t be certain of her ethnic background without seeing her eyes. What little he could see of her face revealed tan skin. Even though the girl appeared to be alone, he knew she wasn’t.
It was a macabre scene, staged solely for his benefit.
“Jordan Rashid, if you want to see your daughter alive, you must follow our instructions exactly.” A deep male voice, altered by some sort of mechanical device, came from somewhere beyond the view of the camera. “If you don’t obey our instructions, or if you go to the authorities, we will kill her.”
“Help me!” the girl shouted, struggling again in earnest. “Please help me. They’re going to hurt me!”
A hooded man stepped in front of the camera and slapped the girl sharply, causing her to cry out in pain as her head snapped sideways from the blow. What the— Jordan leaped from his seat, grabbing the computer screen as if he could prevent the next attack.
“Silence, infidel,” the man shouted. He let out a stream of instructions in low, rapid Arabic that Jordan tried to understand, then quickly stepped back out of the camera’s view and switched to English. “Jordan Rashid, you will receive further instructions within an hour of accessing this website.”
The screen went blank. Jordan stood there, his heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. His vision momentarily blurred. He struggled to focus.
What in the world was going on?
He tunneled his fingers through his hair, pacing the span of his office, trying to block the echo of the young girl’s pleading voice. Was this part of the most recent case the FBI had dropped in his lap? The fact that the guy spoke Arabic and the FBI case had ties to ISIS made it likely. He stopped and jotted down the few phrases he’d been able to pick up.
Teach her to obey. Respect authority.
Jordan swallowed hard, trying not to imagine what might be happening in that room off-camera. He stared at the blank computer screen, wishing he could watch the video again. Who was that poor girl? He didn’t doubt she was nothing more than an innocent pawn in a deadly game. Whoever she was, those guys had gotten inaccurate information. She couldn’t be his daughter. He didn’t have a daughter.
He didn’t have any children at all.
* * *
September 9 – 1:42 p.m. – Washington, DC
Diana Phillips sat on the edge of her hotel room bed and stared at the number written on the note. The image swam and she blinked, peering through the exhausted haze blanketing her eyes.
She was to contact Jordan Rashid the moment she arrived in DC. Her daughter’s life depended on it.
How had this happened? In one moment her peaceful, ordinary life in Jacksonville, North Carolina, had been shattered. Her daughter had vanished, kidnapped sometime after leaving school and before Diana had come home from work. A hysterical sob welled up in her throat. Bryn. Dear, sweet Bryn. Her daughter had to be alive.
She just had to be.
Diana swallowed a cry, struggling to remain calm. She couldn’t fall apart. Bryn was counting on her. Bryn needed her to be strong.
Think. She had to think. If she followed the kidnappers’ demands, there was a good chance she’d get Bryn back alive.
She needed to call Jordan. It couldn’t be a coincidence the kidnappers had sent her to him. Especially since she hadn’t seen Jordan in twelve years. Had, in fact, never told him about his daughter.
He’d be shocked to know Diana was alive, and even more stunned to learn about Bryn. So much had happened back then: their brief, yet passionate love affair and then the cold, hard betrayal he’d accused her of mere hours before the explosion that nearly killed them both.
A wave of helplessness rose in her throat. After everything that had happened, he’d never believe her. How in the world could she make him believe her now when he hadn’t before?
She wasn’t sure, but she had to figure out something.
Bryn’s life depended on it.
With trembling fingers, she punched the numbers into her mobile phone. When Jordan answered, his deep, husky voice caused a riptide of memories. Images she hastily blocked.
She swallowed hard, willing herself to be strong. “Jordan? It’s me, Diana Phillips. Don’t hang up! I know you think I’m dead, but I’m not. I need to talk to you. I need your help. My daughter needs your help.”
“Who is this?” he asked in a sharp tone.
“Diana Phillips,” she repeated. What could she say to convince him? Panic lanced her heart, and she gripped the phone tighter. “Jordan, listen to me. I swear I’m telling you the truth. Remember the night we spent together in Paris? We ate dinner at Les Deux Magots. It’s really me. And my daughter needs your help.”
“Are you connected to the kidnapping?” His tone was blunt. “Is that how you got this number?”
He knew about the kidnapping? For some reason that bit of information struck her as odd. How could he know prior to her call? Confused, she stood and stared out the window of the hotel room. “The kidnappers gave me this number. Please, Jordan. I need to talk to you. In person.”
“Fine. I’ll be waiting.” He disconnected from the line.
Sucking in a harsh breath, she stared at the phone. After everything they’d gone through together twelve years ago, after she mentioned their evening in Paris, the night they’d been intimate, he still didn’t believe her. But somehow he knew about the kidnapping.
Whoever had masterminded snatching Bryn had figured out Jordan Rashid was her daughter’s biological father.
A cold shiver l
ifted the hairs on the back of her neck. How could anyone know the truth? She’d never told Jordan. Hadn’t dared to break the rules surrounding her placement in witness protection, especially after Bryn was born.
The FBI agent who’d sent her into witness protection knew. But why would he tell anyone? Tony Balcome had handed her off to the US Marshals, and her handler was the only one who knew where she lived.
Bitter guilt coated her tongue. Ever since Bryn had disappeared, twenty-one hours and seventeen minutes—no, eighteen minutes—ago, she’d been trying to figure out what was going on. Twelve years had passed since the explosion had nearly cost her her life, and Jordan’s too. Twelve years in witness protection. If this was related to her and Jordan’s tangled past, why go after Bryn now, after all this time?
Or was this kidnapping the result of something more recent? A fist of fear knotted in her belly. She couldn’t deny having a few secrets, and taking Bryn may be an attempt to get back at her. But if that was the case, why send Diana to Jordan? How would anyone discovering her secret mission even know about her and Jordan?
No, this might not be her fault. She’d been beating herself up enough, knowing if she hadn’t stopped for groceries on the way home from work, Bryn might still be safe and sound.
Was it possible Bryn’s kidnapping was related to her mother’s brother, Omar Haram Shekau? She didn’t see how since Omar was dead. She’d watched Jordan kill him twelve years ago, shortly before the crash and the subsequent explosion. She hadn’t been in contact with anyone from her mother’s family since going into witness protection.
Not that she’d wanted to. Her family was dead to her.
Except for Bryn.
None of this made any sense. Bryn’s kidnapping had to be connected to Jordan. To one of his FBI cases.
It had to be his fault her precious daughter was taken.
Spurred into action by a sudden flash of anger, she swept her purse off the bed and flew toward the door. The note directed her to call Jordan Rashid at his office number. It also gave her the location of his office in the Washington, DC, Piermont Office Building.
She’d find him and demand his help in rescuing Bryn. Bypassing the elevator, she ran down the stairs, tripping and falling heavily against the wall in her exhausted haze.
Muffling a startled cry, she yanked herself upright and pulled herself together. Ignoring the pain of her twisted ankle was easier than losing her mind over Bryn. In the lobby, she found the bellman and requested a cab.
Glancing at the crumpled paper in her hand, he noted her destination. “The Piermont Office Building?” He tipped his hat back and raked a skeptical glance over her. “You don’t need a cab, lady. It’s right there, across the street.”
It was? She stared. No wonder she’d been directed to this hotel. The coincidence was too much. The extent of their well-organized and carefully planned approach gave the kidnapping a deep, sinister tone.
Bryn. She had to find Bryn. Fresh tears sprung to her eyes, and she dashed them away with an impatient hand. Where was her anger? Being mad was better than weeping. She strode outside and across the street, running on pure adrenaline.
Bryn was in danger. That’s all that mattered. She ripped open the door to the office building and glared at the directory, searching for Jordan. Through the process of elimination, she figured out that Security Specialists, Inc. had to be where she’d find Jordan’s office.
Twelve years ago, Jordan used to be with the FBI, but it seemed that had changed. She paused outside the doorway to his office, assailed by a towering inferno of doubt. Should she have gone to the authorities? Had she made things worse for Bryn by not going straight to the police? Or to the FBI? What sort of mother was she?
Jordan needed to understand she was telling the truth. And if he didn’t believe her, surely he had enough compassion to care about the life of an innocent girl. If he told her to go to the authorities, she would.
At least, so far, she was doing exactly as directed by the kidnappers. She was meeting their demands, hence assuring Bryn’s safety. Or so she hoped.
She couldn’t afford to consider the alternative.
Yet aside from how Bryn had been dragged into this mess, despite the belief it was all Jordan’s fault, she knew he’d also protected her with his life twelve years ago. Surely that meant something.
Deep down, she firmly believed that Jordan offered the best chance at finding her daughter.
He had to believe her.
He had to help her get Bryn back.
* * *
September 9 – 2:00 p.m. – Washington, DC
Jordan paced the length of his office. The child’s kidnapping followed by a call from a woman claiming to be Diana was enough to raise his suspicions tenfold.
How had she known about their night in Paris? And the exclusive restaurant where they’d eaten dinner? And afterward when they’d first made love?
A shiver snaked down his spine, and he thrust the memory away.
The website access had arrived on his personal account, accompanied by an anonymous note. The website address, Jordanrashidsfuture.com, was not amusing.
The poor kid. He kept seeing the image of the girl being held against her will. Reliving the moment when the jerk slapped her. What else had they done? There were things much worse than a brutal slap.
He felt sick just thinking about it. She was just a little kid!
The determined rap on his door was a welcome relief, even if it came faster than he’d expected. The woman, whoever she really was, made good time getting here. Bracing himself, he opened the door to let her in.
A slender woman, a good five inches shorter than his six-foot frame, stood across the threshold, her deep brown eyes regarding him warily. She wore a pair of brown slacks and a gold sweater. Her black straight hair was pulled away from her face. She looked older, more mature than the woman he’d once loved, but the uncanny resemblance to Diana Phillips squeezed his heart.
When she reached up and twirled the tiny cross earring in her right ear, the familiar nervous gesture hit him square in the chest, forcing him to take a step backward. She looked similar to Diana, had mannerisms just like Diana, and had known about their night in Paris.
Whoever she was, she’d been well trained. No way did he believe she was the woman he’d lost twelve years ago. But what was the point of this elaborate charade?
No clue.
“Jordan.” She didn’t quite meet his gaze as she swept past him, entering the room. “How did you know about the kidnapping? Tell me everything.”
He closed the door behind her, keeping a safe distance between them, ready for any sort of attack. He didn’t trust her but would play along. For now.
For the kid’s sake.
“Have a seat,” he invited. Regardless of how much she looked like Diana, he figured this had to be a trap. Keeping his hands loose at his sides, he stared at her for a long moment. “I assume it’s your daughter I saw on the webcam?”
“Webcam?” She jerked around, the frank hope in her eyes too fevered to fake. “Show me! I want to see Bryn. I need to see my daughter.”
Her reaction appeared all too real. Was this woman really Diana? He didn’t see how it was possible. Diana was dead. This woman had to be an imposter. He waved a hand at the computer. “The site’s already been disconnected. I can tell you that I saw a young girl, about eleven or twelve years old with dark hair, sitting blindfolded in a chair, obviously held against her will.”
“Eleven. She’s eleven.” The woman’s hoarse voice was full of such anguish he almost winced. Diana fiddled with her gold cross earring again, then met his gaze. “Bryn will be twelve in May.”
Counting backward, he realized he’d lost Diana almost twelve years ago in October. If she had gotten pregnant in Paris and lived, her child would have been born in May.
The connection was unnerving. Was it possible? And if so, how? Regardless, even if this woman was Diana, he couldn’t afford to trust her. “I
’m sorry.”
“She’s alive, right?” Diana stepped closer, causing him to take another hasty step back. She followed, closing the gap. “If she’s alive, we still have a chance. We can find her!”
This close, she looked far too much like the woman from his past.
The woman he had once loved.
The woman whose obituary still lined the bottom of his desk drawer.
The woman who had betrayed him.
* * *
September 9 – 2:07 p.m. – Washington, DC
A strained silence fell between them. Jordan finally brought the subject back to the issue at hand. “The kidnappers wanted me to believe the girl was alive, but there are no guarantees.” He refused to offer false hope. This Diana-clone needed to be prepared. The way she was acting, it seemed possible the child might really be her daughter. “Start at the beginning. When did you discover she was missing?”
“Yesterday, late afternoon, when I came home from work.” The woman didn’t sit but moved back and forth in short agitated movements. “I called all her friends, trying to find out if she went somewhere after school without telling me, but as the hour grew later, I began to panic. I was just about to call the police when an envelope was delivered to me by special courier, giving me these instructions.” She pulled the paper out of her pocket and handed it to him.
He took the note, the paper damp and crumpled having been folded and refolded several times, likely clutched in her hands while taking the steps as directed. “You didn’t call the police?”
“No.” She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself. Again, the familiar gesture brought him up short. This is exactly how Diana had looked the night her mother died, stricken with grief, holding herself, yet stoically determined to remain alone.
